


The Ringleader

by rickyling



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, F/M, M/M, the time-line is whack just trust me on this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 15:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10027781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyling/pseuds/rickyling
Summary: We're going to the happiest place on Earth, this is the happiest place on Earth, we're happy here. Daryl's mouth is ugly, decorated by blisters, new and old. This is the happiest place on Earth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea because of how Gareth called Rick 'the Ringleader'... Wheee

Glenn is the first person Rick meets. He's pulled over on the side of the highway, draped across the hood of his Honda, cursing up a storm. Rick is on foot, a bag slung over his shoulder and sporting a wicked looking shiner. It must be a thousand degrees, and the earth is parched and cracking underfoot. The Asian kid pays no attention to Rick as he walks closer.

“Do you need help?” Rick asks, approaching cautiously.

The stranger starts. “You scared me!” He yelps, whirling around to face Rick. “Are you good with cars?”

“No,” Rick says honestly, smiling apologetically. “I’m Rick.”

“Glenn.” Glenn looks him up and down, sizing him up in consideration. “Do you have any money?”

Rick shakes his head, shrugging. “I’m running away.”

“Who isn’t?” Glenn turns back to his car, fumbles around underneath some more. “Did your mom or dad give you that?”

It occurs to Rick after a couple seconds that he’s talking about the black eye, and is taken aback. “What? Neither!”  _ What parent would hit their child? _ “My best friend did. Or… my  _ ex- _ best friend.”

Glenn laughs. “Well, I’m going somewhere that’s perfect for kids who are running away. I’m running away, too.”

Glenn is younger than Rick. He must not be more than fifteen, Rick himself is seventeen. He shouldn’t be driving. His face is still pudgy and youthful, his eyes are still bright and he has dimples on his cheeks when he smiles. Cars go past them at fast speeds, nearly blowing them off their feet; it makes Glenn’s hair swish back against his face and Rick’s curls are quickly becoming tangled.

The car still refuses to start, so Glenn digs around in his trunk and shoves clothes and water bottles into a small bag. “Looks like we’re walking.” He says, looking sorry but not sounding it. “It’s not far, I promise.”

“Where are we going?” Rick asks as the walk along the highway. The sun beats down on them, their shirts stick to their backs, their tongues are shriveled up in their closing throats.

“The happiest place on earth.”

* * *

 

The happiest place on earth turns out to be none other than a circus. It doesn't really  _ look  _ like one, though. Sure, there's a big tent, but it's just put up in the middle of a field, with a bunch of other tents and one or two trailers surrounding it. There's a Ferris wheel, too, but there are vines growing on it and the metallic is rusting away and chipping. To get there, Glenn lead Rick through a thick forest off the side of the highway, on a near-invisible trail.

“Welcome home,” Glenn says without a hint of sarcasm, pure happiness,  and joy.

Rick swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah.”

The second person Rick meets is Daryl, and he is  _ ugly _ . He ― for lack of a better word ― stalks up to Glenn with a scowl on his face, lips drawn back like a dog with its hackles raised. His mouth is thin, surrounded by blisters and dried, cracking blood; his hair is dark brown and messy, charred at the ends, strewn across his forehead and almost covering his striking blue eyes. Ally cat eyes, narrowed against the sunlight and in suspicion when he sees Rick. A crossbow is slung on his back. He is ugly.

“Hey, Daryl,” Glenn greets, giving the stranger a name. “How long have you been here?”

Daryl’s voice matches his face. “A few days,” He says. He must not be any older than Rick ― seventeen at least ― but he sounds like a middle-aged man, a low Georgia drawl. His eyes go to Rick. “Who's this?”

“Rick,” Glenn says, somewhat proudly. “I picked him up.”

“What's his deal?”

“What's my  _ deal _ ?” Rick butts in. “I’m running away. Glenn said you were all runaways.”

“No shit,” Daryl snarls. “I mean, what can you  _ do _ .”

Glenn chimes in again. “I don't think he can  _ do _ anything. Lay off Daryl, hey, lay off, will you?”

“Everyone here  _ does  _ somethin’,” Daryl hisses. “Figure it out.”

And with that, he whips around on his heels in a flourished movement, prowling away again, leaving Rick with a tingling feeling at the base of his spine. Glenn’s hand is a welcoming pressure on the small of his back, guiding him in the opposite direction of where Daryl disappeared in the throng of tents.

“Sorry,” Glenn says quietly. “He's not that bad when you get to know him, I promise. He's just scary at first ‘cause  _ he's  _ scared.”

“Of what?” Rick asks, finding it doubtful that anything could scare Daryl.

“Everything.” Glenn shrugs, nonchalant. “When you go through enough…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Never mind, let's find you a tent. Do you wanna bunk with me? I gotta warn you, I also bunk with Daryl…”

Rick nods, says it's fine, following Glenn to a tent near the center of the ring surrounding the Big Top. There's only one sleeping bag set up in the two person tent ― Daryl’s ― and Glenn apologizes for the tight squeeze.

“I'll sleep in the middle,” He offers, a sweet smile, spreading out his blankets next to Daryl’s.

“What did Daryl mean when he said everyone here  _ does  _ something?”

Glenn sighs. “It's a circus, Rick, we all have…” He hesitates, raking his mind for the right word. “ _ talents. _ ” His face scrunches up as if he didn't like his choice of words. Lowering his voice, Glenn continues: “Like, Maggie and Beth, you'll meet them, they're acrobats. Michonne ― we call her The Samurai ― she swallows swords. Carol’s a witch, a medium, and Daryl tames fire ― we call him The Archer.”

Rick listens on, eyes wide and trying to stifle the feeling of panic settling like a rock in his belly. “What's yours?” He asks, quiet, just above a whisper. He's not sure if he actually wants to know.

Glenn smiles a bright and wicked little grin and leans forward so his mouth brushes the hollow of Rick’s ear. “I can't die.”

* * *

 

As it turns out, the circus wasn't actually a  _ real _ circus. The performers ― the  _ runaways _ , the children, some as young as twelve ― just spend the summers here. There's no guests, no revenue, they don't even have a ringleader. It was a safe haven, an underground railroad for kids who didn't wanna be home, who  _ couldn't  _ be home.

Maggie and Beth’s parents died, and they were threatened to be shipped off to a church-run orphanage that would separate them because of the age difference. Maggie was sixteen, Beth was twelve, and they were almost always joined at the elbow. In order to join the circus, they became acrobats, swinging around on bars and looking out for each other even when they were thirty feet in the air.

Michonne didn't feel like she belonged anywhere until she found the circus. She wielded a sword better than she could study Latin, she took no interest in the many men her father offered to her. Freedom, she wanted freedom, and that's what the circus gave her. Swallowing swords was a new skill, not quite perfected yet, and it worried everyone. Luckily, she was good at it. She was good at everything.

Carol had an abusive boyfriend, and she put a spell on him when she had enough. He choked to death on his own blood, spiders crawling out of his eyes and throat, brains bubbling out of his ears and nose. Technically, she said, she was on the run from the cops. She was the oldest, just turned eighteen, and would be tried as an adult if they caught her; worse yet, she would be tried as a  _ witch _ , and the fear of being burned at the stake or hung was not impractical.

Glenn came to find the circus by accident after his parents kicked him out for being a “freak”. See, Glenn wasn't lying when he said he couldn't die. He's swallowed pills, drank bleach, fell from the top branches of the tallest trees ― he always lived. His parents tried to ship him off for research, and when he refused, they gave him the boot. Daryl found him two years ago, living in the woods all alone, and took him under his wing, showing him the circus and offering him a place in his tent.

Daryl’s past was  _ ugly _ . His father hit him (Rick turned pale when he was told this), cut up his back with a whip and broken bottles. Daryl smoked cigarettes when he was nine, his mother burned to death, even his temper was hot and wild. Everything in Daryl’s life was  _ fire _ . He smelt like gasoline, the blisters in the corner of his mouth popped and oozed pus and blood when he scowled. He learned archery for fun, and now he caught his arrows on fire and could shoot anything and everything if he wanted ― he never missed. Rick wants to be his best friend.

“Don't you ever get tired of tasting gasoline?” Rick asks him when he sits beside him on a blanket. They're eating a deer Daryl hunted down for them.

Daryl shrugs. Daryl doesn't eat. “Sometimes. I've gotten used to it, though.” Rick hasn't gotten used to the smell yet. It's overwhelming, coming off Daryl in waves, suffocating. 

“Why aren't you eating?”

“Throat hurts,” Daryl rasps. As if on cue, he starts coughing, chest heaving, and blood splatters the grass to his left. “Hey,” He says when he's recovered. “Has anyone showed you Shiva yet?”

Rick’s only been here a few hours, but the sun is going down and he's chilly. “No?”

Daryl grins weakly. “Follow me.”

He's lead into the Big Top, where the heat of the day was trapped under the towering sheets. It's warm under here, and the ground underfoot is packed down dirt instead of soft grass. In the dead center, there's a huge square cage, and inside that, pacing like mad, is a tiger.

The beast raises her head, golden eyes on Rick and Daryl, roaring loudly. Rick flinches back, horrified, but Daryl struts right up to her. Rick watches, heart in his throat, as Daryl reaches a hand passed the bars, stroking behind Shiva’s ear. Her purrs vibrate Rick’s chest even from a few yards away.

“What?” Daryl says when he catches Rick staring. “Glenn didn't tell you I was a tiger tamer, too?” Rick shakes his head. Daryl laughs. “Yeah, Michonne and I. I think she likes Michonne better, even though I feed her, how fucked is that?” Daryl is smiling, all jokes, his soft, rough voice getting lost in the tent. “She was jus’ here when we found this place, whoever owned if b’fore abandoned her when they abandoned the circus. How fucked is  _ that _ ?”

“Really fucked,” Rick manages.

“Really fucked,” Daryl agrees. “She's lucky we found this place. We  _ all _ are.”

“We all are,” Rick agrees.

* * *

 

Glenn lathers Maggie’s chapped, blistered hands with lotion that smells like flowers, Carol does the same to Beth. Rick watches, leaning against Daryl’s back while the boy blows smoke rings up to the stars. Michonne says it's nearing midnight.

“We should be getting to sleep,” Glenn says, presses a gentle kiss to each of Maggie’s hands in turn. She smiles, tangling her fingers in Glenn’s hair and touches her lips to his. “Ah,” He chuckles. “You're getting lotion in my gorgeous locks.” Maggie’s laugh is like butterflies and the smell of spring.

The girls break off into their tents: Maggie and Beth in one, Michonne in another, Carol in the one furthest away. The boys trudge to their own shared tent, not knowing the luxury of sleeping alone. “The other tents belong to other performers, they'll be coming soon enough,” Glenn says.

“Shuddup and go to sleep,” Daryl mutters, face in his pillow. He coughs, an unattractive sound, and gasps for breath when he's finished.

“Are you okay?” Glenn asks, a hand on his friend’s shoulder blades. “Are you okay? Do you need water?”

“D’you have gum?”

“I don't, I'll text Tara and tell her to pick some up before she gets here. I'm sorry.”

“It's fine. Water―”

Glenn tilts Daryl’s chin, supporting his head in his lap, against his chest, while Daryl struggles not to cough the water back up. The tent smells like gasoline and the water bottle is empty in seconds. Daryl is groaning, having exhausted himself, and practically falls asleep cushioned against Glenn. Glenn lays him back down, a chaste kiss to his temple, and settles facing Daryl, just in case.

Rick stares at the roof of the tent, gasoline in his nose. “You guys don't have a ringleader?”

“No.” Rick hears more than sees Glenn shaking his head. “It's fine, we manage.”

Rick nods, feeling his eyes drooping. He wonders about waking up and finding Daryl choked to death on blood and pus, blisters in his throat popping all at once. He shivers, pressing closer to Glenn, who hums contently. Daryl’s already asleep, snoring softly and whimpering occasionally.

Rick feels more at home here than anywhere else he's ever laid his head.

* * *

 

Three new arrivals are what greets them in the morning. Rosita, Tara, and Sasha all came in on the same bus. Tara smiles too much, Rosita hardly smiles at all, Sasha shows Rick that she has a sniper and grins like wildfire. When Rick asks what she does, she balances an apple on Daryl’s head and closes her eyes. Daryl doesn’t even flinch when she pulls the trigger and the apple gets a bullet hole straight in the center. Rosita is a contortionist, Tara is, fittingly, a clown. Tara can juggle, crack jokes, and even balance on the trapeze wire above Shiva’s cage.

“Oh yeah,” She says, fishing through her pockets. “I got your gum.” She tosses it to Daryl, who’s sitting by his tiger’s cage, watching everyone fool around on the wire above him.

“Thanks,” Daryl says, throat still sore, setting it down beside him. Turning to Rick, he asks, “Do y’wanna see my act?”

“Which one?” Rick asks from his spot near the edge of the tent next to Glenn. “The fire eating or the tiger-taming?”

Daryl shrugs. “Up to you.”

“Tiger.”

“Not that one. Someone grab the gasoline for me.”

“What was the point of asking then?” Rick pouts, chin on his pulled up knees. “Your throat still hurts from last time―”

“I got it,” Daryl snaps, shifting through his bag. He pulls out arrows, water bottles, a headband that he uses to push his long hair back from his forehead. Rick sees his eyes clearly for the first time; it makes him look younger. Daryl’s skin is soft and glowing where it isn’t blistering and burnt. Rick wishes he’d just show him the tiger act.

Michonne brings him a can of kerosene, a stony expression on her face. The lively chatter stops while Daryl prepares his torch, they don’t like when he does this, either. It’s dangerous, and unlike Glenn, Daryl can die.

“Remember,” Carol recites. “If something happens to him―”

“Then Tara and I take him to the hospital,” Glenn says. “Because we’re the only ones not wanted by the police.”

Carol nods. “Right. Or,” she faces Rick. “him.”

Rick ignores how her gaze hovers on him for an extra second longer. He watches Daryl instead.

He watches Daryl light the torch and tilt his head back. He watches the flames lick towards his open mouth. He watches Daryl’s lips close around the wick, a perfect  _ O  _ shape. He watches Daryl pull the torch, smoke and all, out of his throat and cough once, grinning slightly. Beside him, Glenn sighs.

“Better make use of that gum,” Tara says. “I’m not holding a conversation with you ‘til your breath is minty fresh.”

“That'll never happen,” Daryl says. His voice is destroyed, hardly a whisper. Blood trickles out of the corner of his mouth. “It's always there ― faint.”

“Not if you stop,” Beth offers.

“I can't stop,” Daryl rasps darkly. “None of us can.”

Rick rests his cheek against his bony knees, steadies his breathing and listens to the group start moving around. Maggie and Beth climb the ladder to the wire, hand in hand, smiles and touching their fingers to each other’s noses. Rosita and Tara kiss softly in a corner, murmuring gentle lullabies. Michonne’s fingers run through Rick’s curls, detangling them, talking to Sasha as she does. Glenn watches Maggie, completely in love, like she's the only star in the sky tonight. Carol stares at the opposite wall. Daryl curls up next to Shiva and is asleep in seconds. Shiva licks his mop of hair, purring.

“Is anyone else coming?” Rick asks.

“Maybe,” Michonne hums. “Probably not. Paul Rovia ― we call him Jesus ― comes some years, but he hasn't in awhile. So probably not. Just us.”

“Perfect,” Rick says. “Perfect.”

“Yeah,” Glenn agrees, eyes on Maggie. “Perfect.”

* * *

 

Daryl brushes his teeth until his gums bleed. He does this after he's finished off the pack of gum he got only a few hours ago; leaning over a water trough, scrubbing away at his tongue and teeth and insides of his cheeks. The toothbrush comes out coated in blood, and his spit is a pale pink color. This takes him an impressive five minutes of work and he ends with a shot of mouthwash, with which he gurgles loudly and thoroughly. He spits that, too, and finally he sits back in the grass, rubbing his blistering lips over the back of his hand and wincing.

“Do I still smell like gasoline?” Daryl asks Michonne to his right. Michonne leans in, nose to Daryl’s lips while he exhales.

“Yes.” Michonne never lies. She kisses him softly, a chaste peck on his frowning mouth. “Faintly.” Daryl sighs in defeat, body deflating. “Can you still taste it?”

“Faintly,” He echoes.

This happens every night for a week. Daryl eats fire, Daryl scrubs until he bleeds, Michonne can still smell it and kisses him like a mother would kiss her child’s scraped knee, Daryl can still taste it. On the seventh night, Daryl loses it, practically swallows his toothbrush and downs the entire bottle of mouthwash, threatens to cut out his tongue and set his throat on fire. Carol holds him through his, begs him to stop eating fire, and he tosses his head and fights against her iron hold and tells her to go fuck herself, tells them all to go fuck themselves.

That night, Daryl wakes from a nightmare in between Rick and Glenn. He shoots straight up, skin soaked with sweat, suffocating in terror. Rick reacts first, holding the boy against his chest, pinning down his torso while Glenn struggles to hold down his kicking legs.

“Daryl!” Glenn begs, still sleepy-eyed and disoriented. “It was just a dream, it was just a dream, please, calm down―”

“You died,” Daryl gasps out, collapsing into Rick’s lap with his chest heaving and every blister on his mouth split open and oozing pus and blood. “Glenn died. Glenn died and it was my fault. The fire, oh god the fire, I couldn’t control it ―”

“It was just a dream,” Rick and Glenn repeat over and over, still holding Daryl even though he's calmed down. They fall asleep like that. Daryl doesn't. Daryl doesn't sleep for a long time after that.

* * *

 

“Watch this,” Glenn says, smiling, a small capsule in his hand.

Rick looks up from Tara’s juggling demonstration. Glenn’s act was the only one he hasn't seen yet, and Glenn’s act is the most intriguing, the hardest to believe.

“What is that?” Tara asks, bean bags landing on the ground with four soft thumps. “Percocets?”

Glenn nods, absently reading the label. “Something that says you shouldn't take more than two at a time.” He grins wickedly. “I'm gonna take them all.”

Maggie groans from her position next to Daryl. The fire-breather’s hair is littered with flowers that Beth keeps sticking in the brown locks. “I still stand by the theory that you've just been lucky,” Maggie says. “Please don't test that any more than you already have.”

“Maggie, I can't ―”

“Immortality is impossible,” Maggie interrupts. “ _ Luck _ is not. You're gonna kill yourself one of these days.”

Glenn glares at her. “Says the one who swings herself fifty feet in the air.” His arm swings in a broad circle, indicating to the group sitting around under the Big Top. “Michonne swallows swords, Rosita comes close to breaking every bone in her body, Sasha almost kills all of us on the daily with her stupid tricks, Daryl eats fire and cuddles with that fucking  _ tiger _ ―” Daryl flinches. “― why are you getting on my case about doing my act every once in awhile? We all  _ do  _ something that gives us purpose,” Glenn says, weakly. “This is  _ mine _ .”

“Risking your life,” Maggie whispers. “isn't  _ worth  _ it.”

“To me it is. If I don't have this circus ―”

“It's hardly a circus,” Carol snaps. “We don't even have a ringleader. We're just a bunch of fuck-up runaways who can do weird shit.”

Everyone falls silent. Shiva roars. Beth whimpers and hides behind Daryl and Maggie. Sasha lights a cigarette.

“Go on then, sport,” Rosita says suddenly. Glenn looks at her in surprise. “Take your suicide pills.”

Glenn continues, slowly, nodding. “If I don't have this circus, I don't have anything. Same with all of you.” He pours the entire contents of the pill bottle down his throat and swallows. Everyone holds their breath. “I can't die!” Glenn insists, holding out his arms as if to prove a point.

Daryl rests his head on Maggie’s shoulder. “That ain't really somethin’ to be happy about.”

“Why?”

Daryl shrugs. “‘cause someday, prob’ly soon, we’re all gonna be dead.” He stabs the tip of his pocket knife into the dirt and twirls it around, creating a tiny hole. “an’ it's jus’ gonna be you and this stupid circus.”

“It's a curse, not a blessing,” Tara agrees, for once something less than happy.

Glenn sniffs, hangs his head from his tired shoulders. Rick hugs his knees to his chest, wonders how his family is doing, if they're wondering where he is, if they're worried about him. Should they be worried about him? He looks around again, at the tiger, the witch, the sniper, the boy who can't die. No, probably not, he decides.

No one says or does anything for a while, so Daryl gets his can of kerosene and finds a lighter behind his ear. Instead of eating dinner that night, Daryl eats fire. Everyone watches him, bellies full with food he caught, the flame reflected in their irises. The first torch almost catches Daryl’s hair on fire ― he forgot to put his headband on ― and he quickly fixes his mistake. Hair secure, he goes again, this time holding the flaming torch in his mouth until black smoke starts filtering through his nostrils. With a hacking cough, he pulls the wand out of throats and blood and puke follows it. The throw up isn't anything impressive, in fact, it's mostly gasoline and mouthwash.

Michonne swallows her swords. She doesn't slip up once, performing the task smoothly and without incident. A katana is her choice of instrument, and at one point, she holds it in her chest cavity, breathing in and out, just the handle visible out of her mouth. When she gets tired of it, she pulls it out slowly and carefully, not at all as reckless with her task as Glenn and Daryl are with theirs.

“You have to push your heart to the left with the tip of the sword,” Michonne explains, voice hoarse.

“Who taught you?” Rick asks.

“I taught myself.”

“Will you teach me?” Daryl begs in a way that makes Rick think this isn't the first time he's asked.

Michonne smiles gently. “No way, fireball.”

“Stick to swallowing fire, hot stuff,” Rosita agrees. Everyone laughs, whether it be at the carefully chosen nicknames or the image of Daryl trying to swallow swords.

The atmosphere clears immediately, everyone lightening. Even Glenn joins in, somewhat reluctantly, but he laughs nonetheless. Maggie brings him in for a kiss, a silent apology for doubting him. He takes it, accepts it gratefully, nuzzling into her hair and effectively stealing her from Daryl.

“Gotta find a new pillow now, asshole,” Daryl complains without a hint of malice. His new pillow turns out to be Rick. They lean against one another's backs, support for support, and share a crumbled and kind-of-stale cigarette.

“If you wanna learn a new trick,” Tara says to Daryl. “I could teach you how to juggle!” She tosses her bean bags in the air, juggling them to prove her point.

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Would rather have Shiva show me how to hunt down prey, me being the prey.”

“Asshole.”

Another chorus of laughter erupts. Rick leans his head back on Daryl’s shoulder, an awkward and uncomfortable angle, and watches the flimsy roof of the tent sway in the breeze above them. Daryl does the same, so their ears are smushed together and their balance falters just slightly.

“Hey, Rick?” Daryl whispers.

“What's up, Dare?” No one's paying attention to them anymore. Maggie and Beth are on the trapeze wire, laughing and singing and flying, flying, flying. Sasha is shooting at the apple balanced on Tara’s head. Michonne and Carol are dozing off.

“Do I smell like gasoline?”

“And fire,” Rick answers. “Do you wanna go brush your teeth? I'll come with you.”

“Thank you.”

So they go to the water trough, and no one bats an eye, and Daryl leans over the edge and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until his blisters, new and old, pop and his gums bleed. He gurgles his mouthwash and sucks on his teeth and threatens to cut out his tongue again.

“Rick, do I still smell like gasoline?”

Rick leans in, too close for comfort, and inhales the air Daryl exhales. “Yes, faintly.” He kisses him and tastes it, too. It's everywhere and everything. “Do you taste it?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“Yes.”

Daryl scrubs and scrubs and scrubs.

* * *

 

Rick goes into town with Daryl on the day he dies. They're on the hunt for toothpaste, gum, cigarettes, snack food ― the necessities. The girls handed them a list of things to grab as well ― tampons and painkillers, mostly ― and they made their way into King’s County with Michonne leading the way.

Daryl stoops and picks up half-smoked cigarettes he finds on the ground, lighting the roaches with the lighter he keeps tucked behind his ear. Michonne scolds him, wrinkles her nose, Rick tries to knock them away, Daryl leans away, laughing, just out of his reach. A group of junior high kids stop them at one point, eyes wide as they approach Daryl and Michonne cautiously.

“You're the Archer and Samurai, right?” They ask him, standing a few feet back. “You eat fire and swallow swords.”

“We do,” Daryl says proudly, chest puffed out and huffing out a billow of smoke. He grins at Michonne, one that she returns. “You want us t’show ya?”

And then there's a whole crowd around them as Daryl swallows his fire and juggles torches ablaze with orange flame. The people gasp and cheer, touch Daryl’s shoulders and shriek in delight when the fire almost scorches off their eyebrows. Michonne can tell Daryl’s getting uncomfortable under the attention and is more than happy to steal it away. She carries her katana just as Daryl carries his torches and kerosene, and she swallows the mighty blade with well-practiced ease. The crowd holds their breath, whoops and whimper in fear.

“What do you do?” A lady asks Rick, looking him up and down.

Rick just laughs. “Consider me the Ringleader.”

“The Ringleader, the Archer, and the Samurai,” Says a little kid, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “What a nice ring to it, huh?”

Rick smiles. “Yeah.”

Eventually, they manage to break away from the mini sideshow, excusing themselves and cleaning up their acts. When the crowd disperses, Rick asks, “How do they know about you guys?”

Michonne coughs slightly. “We used to do street performances for money,” She explains. “We stopped it the past year ‘cause so many of them were wanted by cops.”

“We still could.” Daryl shrugs. “Michonne and I, Glenn and Tara, Rosita, too. If we needed to.”

A bell tinkles as they step into a corner store. Daryl immediately veers off towards the toothpaste, Michonne to the feminine section, Rick being left to chose who to follow. He wanders after Daryl absently, looking over the boy’s shoulder while he hunted down the perfect toothpaste.

“Do you want gum?” Rick asks, lips against Daryl’s shoulder.

“Yes, please.” Daryl leans back into his touch momentarily.

“Okay.” Rick kisses him quickly. “What flavor?”

“Strawberry,” Michonne chimes in from the next aisle. Her head appears over the low shelves. “It tastes good when you kiss him.”

“Right,” Rick says, almost forgetting he isn't the only one who kisses Daryl.

Daryl scoops up a couple packs of gum, some mint, mostly strawberry, though. Rick throws one that’s labeled “apple pie”, and both his companions wrinkle their noses.

“That sounds disgusting,” Michonne comments.

Rick shoves her. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

They walk home. Home is the circus. Home is shitty tents in a half-circle around the Big Top. Home is Daryl’s nightmares and Beth’s singing and Glenn’s laughter. The summer is nearing the end, Rick can tell, if the chill that sneaks in after the sun sneaks down behind the horizon is any indication. Rick doesn’t know what will happen when the summer ends and everyone’s supposed to go elsewhere. Will he follow Daryl? Will Michonne follow them?

Michonne follows them tonight, into their tent. Glenn goes to Maggie and Beth’s tent. Michonne lays down in Glenn’s old spot, on Daryl’s right, Rick on his left. Daryl falls asleep wrapped up between them and Rick and Michonne kiss lazily over his body for a few minutes before they fall asleep, too.

Daryl doesn’t wake up from nightmares. He wakes up to tell Rick he loves him.

“I love you,” Daryl says.

“I love you, too,” Rick says without hesitation. “Go to sleep.”

Something happens when Daryl goes back to sleep and Daryl dies, right there in Rick’s arms, with Rick’s lips on his, peacefully in his sleep.

Michonne’s the one to realize it when they wake up.

“I don’t wanna eat fire anymore,” Daryl says. Daryl dies.

“Then don’t,” Michonne says. Daryl’s already dead.

“I don’t know who I am if I don’t.”

“Then be someone else.”

Daryl nods. “You can stop, too,” He tells her. “We all can. We can start over.”

Rick leans in, slowly, and kisses him. Michonne kisses him, too, and then she kisses Rick and Rick kisses her back. Daryl watches them, blinking slowly, waiting his turn until Rick is kissing him again.

“Can you taste gasoline?” Daryl asks.

Rick doesn’t lie to him. “No, not anymore. Can you?”

Daryl grins. “No, not anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> what the fuck ever man


End file.
